


Undiscovered Country

by theblindtorpedo



Category: Fate/Zero, ロード・エルメロイⅡ世の事件簿 - 三田誠 | Lord El-Melloi II Case Files - Sanda Makoto
Genre: Afterlife, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Melvin just wants to have a good time, Reunions, Time Shenanigans, maybe some Waver/Rider if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:48:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25701601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theblindtorpedo/pseuds/theblindtorpedo
Summary: When asked his idea of Heaven, Melvin Weins would have said surrounded by beautiful women, perhaps at an exotic brothel. But the powers that be know Melvin Weins is a liar and instead give him what he truly wants.
Relationships: Waver Velvet/Melvin Waynez
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	Undiscovered Country

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fearboss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearboss/gifts), [Riflebird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riflebird/gifts).



> This is a direct sequel to [Sickness In Motion](http://www.archiveofourown.org/works/22423867/chapters/53576362), but can be read as a stand-alone.

Despite thirty years of speculation, Melvin Weins could not predict the experience of death.  
  
He does not awake as he is used to, for of course this is no mortal slumber. His consciousness reforms like bits of water dropped next to each other on a plate. Sub-atomic communication and coalescence. His sense of self is an archipelago of islands that expand and connect over millennia as the waters of the void recede.  
  
It takes time for him to remember who he is. When the name Melvin Weins imprints once again it has been minutes, days, years he cannot tell the difference. There is no space here to grieve for who he once was or grieve for his old life. Just as there was a freedom to the arrival of the inevitable, there is a relief in walking out the other side. Pain and suffering are hollow memories.  
  
He contemplates his current state: is this what it felt like once, to be healthy? He does not think so. There is an awareness of the body, but it is intellectual, a conceptualization. He can create sensation if he concentrates, but if he becomes distracted, shifts his focus, his corporal awareness slips away. There is no fear in it. Even without his body he is Melvin Weins, but if he likes, if he wants some decoration, he can look down and be comforted by the familiar pale wrist and rhizomatic red of veins that no longer need to pump blood.  
  
Once he grasps this style of being he turns his brain to other matters and as suddenly as he grows bored of self-examination the void vanishes around him.  
  
He is in a desert.

Melvin Weins did not believe in Heaven while he was alive, but he finds the diorama before him could match up to an unknowable, subconscious idea of paradise. The sun beats down, but no sweat coats his arms, his skin does not sear, as he approaches the caravan camp and its inhabitants raise their heads in wonder. He is accustomed to questing looks and he is certain his albinic features must stand out as even more peculiar among the display of bronzed skin and rippling muscle. Even the slimmer ones are clearly athletic. Yet, among the curiosity is absent the usual revulsion.

He winks at a few of the men who reward him with sly smiles in return.

He reaches the center of the encampment where a man with dark, long hair (eerily familiar) takes his wrist and seats him in an awaiting chair.

“It has been some time since the Ionian Hetairoi had a new member,” the man says, before scrunching his face up as if his own statement has caused him painful confusion. “Some time . . . indeed.” He repeats with hesitation.

“Mummy always said I knew how to make an entrance,” Melvin says, idly flicking his wrist for emphasis. “If I’m a member of this club of sorts you don’t think I could have some sort of celebratory drink?”

He is not physically thirsty (is not sure if he can still feel thirst), but he does want to test if he can be drunk. If one’s own death wasn’t an excuse for overindulgence, then what is? If his afterlife was to be spent among these men, this Ionian Hetairoi, Melvin intended to take full advantage of it.

He licks his lips as he appraises the familiar man, who nods at his request. Not the genuine article, Melvin can see that, still this man bears a striking resemblance to his old lover. The man entrances Melvin, offset appearance just close enough to entice, like a shimmering mirage. Perhaps this is a Heavenly version of Waver, a relative, or better yet a construct for Melvin’s pleasure. It will not be the same, but Melvin had a lifetime of practice settling for second best. It is only by some miracle that he had captured Waver’s heart mere months before his demise. He is grateful. Even if he had nothing to show for it, the short life of Melvin Weins will at least make a good story.

“What’s your name?” Melvin asks.

“Eumenes.”

“Oh.” He cannot stop the note of disappointment falling to sift the sand at his feet as he slumps in the chair. “Does the name Waver Velvet mean anything to you?” There is a goblet of wine offered at his wrist; he downs it in one motion.

“I did not know him personally, but I have heard great things. You will want to speak to the King.”

As if on cue, the ground shakes with heavy footsteps, and all heads turn.

“Welcome! „

“You! Alexander the Great!” Melvin leaps to his feet and scampers to where he has to crane his neck up to see the King, resplendent in tough leather and sweeping crimson cloak. The large man tilts his head quizzically, before letting his face crack with a wide grin.

Melvin takes a step back, suddenly aware of his impudence, and bows. “You do not know me, but I-“

“But I do know you,” Alexander says, “He has dreamed of you often.”

“Dreamed of me . . .” The words coalesce into a shining understanding. Time moves freely here. Melvin will not have to wait quite so long. “Will Waver joins us soon?” he asks and he hopes it does not sound like begging.

“I think you should have a few days to yourself first, before he arrives, get used to the place. Plus, I’d like the opportunity to converse with you alone. Tell me about the man he has become. What do his followers see in him, what do they admire, what has he created?”

“Well . . . Waver has done many great things. But I don’t think I should give up my secrets quite so easily!” Melvin pouts dramatically, all faux petulance, and Alexander claps him on the shoulder, easily acquiescing.

“Fetch more wine!” the King calls and Melvin beams.

* * * * *

Waver Velvet knows exactly where he is. He had a lifetime to prepare for this moment, a lifetime of dreams of thundering voices and the smell of desert air.

Yet, there must be an error, he tells himself, as a high, whooping cry pierces the air. He cannot truly be within Rider’s reality marble, he thinks, and hear the sing-song call of his name that still sends an ache through his chest as memories resurface. That same voice once so ardently proclaimed its love for him, in between kisses both passionate and sweet, that same voice now called to him from across the dunes.

Waver had devoutly wished, but he had not dared to dream this dream.

Then his face is peppered with multitudes of kisses and arms full of jubilant Melvin Weins. Soon the two of them enveloped in a strong Macedonian embrace that would squeeze the life out of them if they were still of the earth. Yet, the hammering in his chest makes him feel vibrantly alive; Waver Velvet knew that he was satisfied with his full life, but it was a wonderful thing to be in love again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! All comments and kudos greatly appreciated.


End file.
